


even heroes need to feel

by Sasskarian



Series: Home is Where You Are [4]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Drama & Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Parent-Child Relationship, References to Shakespeare, Romance, Slow Build, also dad!drack comes back, and here we see the aftereffects of dying on the archon's ship, and jaal realizing he's falling in love, and sara shows us a bit about what growing up as a ryder was like, and turns out that alec ryder had a lot more depth than anyone gives him credit for, implied empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian
Summary: It was sometimes easy to forget that Sara was younger than he was, if he ignored the time spent traveling through dark space. She shone among the brightest of stars in Heleus, and her legends were being told already. But here, in the quiet of her quarters, he saw the mask of Pathfinder fall away.





	even heroes need to feel

**Author's Note:**

> I'm playing around with the timeline a slight bit here-- mostly because somehow, even through every playthrough, I keep forgetting to go see Tann after rescuing Paarchero. And since I'm writing my Sara, and not perfectly-canon-Sara, that's the timeline we're following. 
> 
> This piece turned out so much longer than I expected. So tell me, o readers, do I post the second half as an additional chapter, or as Home Part 5?

**Andromeda Galaxy | Heleus Cluster | Docked: Nexus | August 13, 2819 | 0900 Nexus Standard Time**

*******

Funny how things that seemed so unimportant turned out to be a lifeline. The once-white box was scarred, designs etched into the metal like familiar black lightning bolts: the Scourge had scarred the Nexus and the Hyperion in much the same manner. Ironically, her own footlocker—and Scott’s—were both pristine, as gleaming and white as the day 638 years prior when they had departed Earth.

Sara’s fingers trembled as they brushed over the last, true vestige of her father. His quarters on the Nexus had been furnished before they’d left the Milky Way, bits and pieces of his life and his work on the Initiative. She could go there any time and wander amongst his things, see at least some semblance between the man the Initiative knew him as and the father she’d grown up missing. Ever-present coffee rings on his desk— _“Dammit, Alec, could you at least wipe the mug off before you set it down?” Ellen rolled her eyes in fond exasperation as she tried and failed to scrub the stain away_ — and piles of paper, datapads where Alec had looked over them and tossed them aside after dealing with them. Half-finished books with notations and tabs and dog-eared corners, and some unfinished model ship kits. All these things spoke to her of her father.

But whatever was in his footlocker was a mystery, had been packed while she and Scott packed their own. And for the first time in her relatively short life, Sara had come up against a mystery she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve.

***

_To: Pathfinder Ryder  
From: Director J. Tann_

_Ryder,_

_As we are waking sleepers for Eos and Voeld, our stasis teams are also accessing storage. Several caches of footlockers were lost to the Scourge when the Nexus was hit, but with luck, yours, your father’s and your brother’s were recovered. As Scott is still in a coma, I have delivered yours and your father’s into your care. It seemed appropriate, as records indicate that your father’s birthday will be coming up this week._

_Doctor Carlyle has taken charge of your brother’s until he is recovered._

_You’re doing good work out there, Ryder. The return of Ark Paarchero is a great victory, not only for Salarians, but for everyone here in Andromeda._

_I hope your belongings will provide you some measure of comfort in the coming weeks._

_Jarun Tann_

***

Six months in Andromeda changed a person. Hell, if she’s honest with herself, the change had begun from that first touchdown on Habitat 7: crash landing on a world trying to kill you was a wake-up call if she’d ever had one. The Sara Ryder who’d left Earth without a backwards glance wouldn’t have thought twice about opening the locker. She respected her father, and loved him, but for the chance to get some measure of understanding about him? See what he held valuable enough to drag 2.2 million light years? The curiosity would have been burning a hole through her gut from the second she’d been handed the damn thing.

The Sara Ryder who had earned new scars—who had two established outposts and now a rescued ark under her belt—and currently sat on a bed that wasn’t her own stared down the last pieces of her father’s life with a burning gut for a different reason: guilt was eating her alive.

In her nightmares, she saw what her conscious mind refused to.

In many, she chased after her father, her armor falling away from her, making her stumble and trip; in those, she shrank from a twenty-three year old woman to a toddler who sat on the cold ground of Hab 7 and cried as Alec’s form disappeared into the distance. In others, she would be lying on that damp, hard ground, gasping as the poisonous air crawled through her lungs with thieving fingers, stealing her breath. And always, her father’s face would swim in front of her, his big hands turning her dying body over with a gentleness she hadn’t felt since childhood. She could only watch, helpless and weak, as he pried the broken helmet from her and smoothed her hair back with a sad half-smile before pulling off his own and connecting it to her suit. Sacrificing himself for her.

An expert for a fuck-up.

“Sara, I am detecting high levels of cortisol and adrenaline in your system.” SAM’s interface lit up on the corner of her desk, where her own footlocker had been unceremoniously dumped. “Are you in danger?”

“No, SAM,” she wheezed, rubbing her hand across her throat. Every time she thought about Habitat 7, her chest ached and her lungs seemed to close.

Doctor T’Perro knew that Sara was faking her cheer. The pointed emails about stress, yoga, and relaxation were enough of a hint that Sara wasn’t as good at hiding her emotions as she should have been. Sara hadn’t bothered responding. Then last week, a public notice about mental illnesses—PTSD, anxiety, et all—had appeared on the crew message board alongside the usual dick jokes and good-natured ribbing that came from crew-turned-friends stuck in a small space for long periods of time.

Drack knew she was suffering, too. The old krogan had taken to playing cards with her and Lexi late at night, both of them somehow always available on the nights she couldn’t sleep. At last count, there were four emails from him, each with attachments of weaponry and tech, each one clearly ripped from the Andromeda’s small version of the extranet, and each one low-resolution and occasionally watermarked. They made her smile anyway. Sara suspected that the Matriarch credit scam two weeks ago had been for her benefit and amusement; the old man was sharp and, though his body was failing around him, there was nothing wrong with his mind.

A chime at her door interrupted her musing.

 _Pathfinder,_ SAM accessed their private channel, _Drack is requesting your attention._

“Tell him I’m unavailable, please.”

_Acknowledged._

“Time to stop being a coward, Ryder,” she muttered to herself, pulling her father’s locker towards her. Though she might not have had Scott’s technical expertise—her brother having mastered the art of hacking the entire Ryder family files, encryption or no, by the age of eleven—it didn’t take a half-dead pyjack to realize that the 8-digit security lock was most likely to have been a date her father would remember, even after the brain-fog stasis could induce.

 _Mom,_ she thought, tapping in her mother’s birthday. The lock buzzed at her, and a small counter appeared above the interface.

“Huh,” she breathed, surprised. Given what she was finding out— through her father’s memories and files— his love for Ellen had been the driving force behind… all of this. SAM, the Initiative, everything.

 _Pathfinder, Drack is sitting outside the door and has threatened to spend the rest of the day there if you do not speak with him,_ SAM informed her, a thread of humor woven through his electronic voice. _I should inform you that there is a seventy-five percent chance he may resort to violence to get your attention._

“SAM, do you know my father’s footlocker code?” Sara asked quietly, ignoring the krogan muttering she could hear from the hallway. Drack’s presence loomed, much like the krogan himself did and she could almost feel his irritation and worry despite the closed door. She’d been avoiding a direct confrontation with him for three days; what he wanted to talk about— yell at her about— wasn’t something she had the patience to hear yet.

_Negative, Sara. Your father would not allow me to record it._

“Okay, then. Maybe… their anniversary?” She tried that combination as well, huffing an annoyed sigh when the lock buzzed again, and the four went down to three. “I don’t know why I thought that’d work. He never remembered it anyway.”

Twice more she tried, using her father’s birthday and— with annoyance— the launch date of the Initiative. Twice more, the lock buzzed, loud and disapproving. The number one above the lock was a bright, angry red that flashed and left afterimages in her eyes.

“SAM, what happens if the countdown reaches zero?” she asked. Vaguely remembered briefings and security plans danced through her head but had been displaced by the reality of trying to survive in Andromeda. _And dying a couple of times, not that anyone’s counting._

 _The contents of the locker will be incinerated to prevent any sort of theft,_ SAM confirmed.

“Thought so. Dammit.”

_May I suggest trying something related to you and your brother? It is the only logical conclusion left that has a probable chance of success. Anything beyond that would descend into improbability to simply ‘guess.’_

She could almost hear the quotation marks in the AIs voice. Gritting her teeth, Sara typed in their birthday and closed her eyes, waiting for the buzz and faint smoke to signal that in this, like many things, she’d failed. Instead, there was a small beep and hiss as the locker opened. Sara felt her jaw drop. She hadn’t thought that kind of thing happened in reality; it had certainly never happened to her before. But her jaw honest-to-God dropped and her eyes flew open.

“I can’t believe that worked.” Her eyes narrowed as she pulled the locker towards her, anger catching in her throat. “He spends years fucking pretending Scott and I don’t exist but— he just up and— he makes—” Tears rolled down her cheeks but she barely noticed. “I’m never going to understand him.”

A perverse desire to shut the footlocker and space it boiled through her, strong enough to make her hands fist, nails biting into palms just shy of cutting pressure. With a sniffle, she pushed herself off the bed and paced in front of the window, unable to find a single place to rest her eyes that didn’t remind her that she was not Alec Ryder. _He left me here alone!_ She wanted to scream out her anger and confusion. SAM buzzed faintly through her implant, a now-familiar sign that he was processing, and the spot at the base of her skull that had always echoed with Scott’s laughter and wry snark was depressingly silent.

Even with an AI in her head, she felt alone and bereft.

“Might as well see what the old man was hiding,” she told herself, yanking hard on her ponytail. Three steps later and she plopped down on the bed, fingers trembling as they lifted the lid.

*******

**Nexus | Cultural Exchange | 1555 Nexus Standard Time |**

*******

Keeping his mind busy wasn’t a problem that Jaal Ama Darav had ever had. There was always so much to learn, to take apart and dig his hands into the guts of that, more often, keeping his attention focused was a different story all together. He glanced down at his omni-tool a little guiltily. He was supposed to be back aboard the Tempest over an hour ago, to depart for Aya to resupply things he couldn’t get on the Nexus and needed to take inventory. He’d meant to only swing in for a few moments, exchange some of the texts, but then the curator had seen him and… well…

The Cultural Exchange was just so _fascinating_. Holograms and pictures and downloadable files enticed Jaal back time and again, devouring all available information on the Milky Way. To his pleasure, and relief, he was beginning to understand why the Initiative had come to Andromeda. Headed by—developed by—humans, the hope of a new home hung heavy in the recorded speeches he’d heard from Jien Garson. Her belief had wrapped itself around him, promised him discovery and adventure and a place to belong.

Even Jaal felt himself moved at her words. He’d found a place to belong, among the aliens he now called family, but he now realized that the hunger for home and new beginnings was universal in the most literal sense. It was easy to see how vast numbers of people from all walks of life had been woven together to form the Initiative. Jaal had been selecting certain things to forward on to Evfra in the hopes of reducing the cold reception the Initiative was meeting, hoping his old friend and commander would thaw a little.

The truth was, as he meandered his way through the ever-growing crowds of the Nexus, that when the humans had basically crashed on Aya—on fire, exhausted, terrified—he’d thought along the same lines. More aliens, on top of their war with the Kett? How could that ever end well?

***

_“Aya is hidden, protected,” he growls, drawing up to his most intimidating height. Her unimpressed expression surprises him; the alien planes of her face manage to convey her lack of fear and he feels a tickle of curiosity underneath his initial anger. “What do you want?”_

_“I apologize. Landing here, the way we did,” the alien turns her head to look at the ship behind her, something like regret crossing her small face, “without warning… on fire… That was not the plan.”_

_He wants to laugh. Evfra might shoot him for it, but oh, he wants to laugh. Her answer is wry and, while a little hesitant, humor twines through it with an ease that speaks of a natural state. There is something in her face as well, something he hasn’t seen in any of the “exiles” of her kind, that makes him want to believe her. He tells himself that even Evfra can’t deny that at least this alien contact is different, if not better, than the Kett._

_“That’s good to know,” he said, leaning in a bit; he's absurdly pleased that, despite her small size, she doesn’t give him even an inch of ground. “That would have been a very bad plan.” As he turns to Paaran, he sees the alien smile a little at the ground. There is nothing smug or cruel in that smile, but he thinks some part of her recognizes the humor in his own answer. Jaal is a tinkerer at heart, despite his soldiering, and on the way back to Evfra to report, he feels the itching in his fingers to solve the mystery the aliens had brought with their presence._

_***_

_Now look at yourself,_ he thought, beginning the airlock process that would lead him back to the Tempest. Back to his home. _Evfra might still decide to shoot you if he gets wind of what’s going on._

Jaal was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. The truth was, Evfra hadn’t objected to his desire to go with the Tempest on her missions in Heleus because he wanted one of his own— someone loyal to the Angara, loyal to the Resistance, loyal to _him_ — to be there in case the _vesagara_ turned out to be just like, or somehow worse than, the kett. Evfra had placed a weapon on board the human ship, someone who would kill to keep Aya protected, just in case.

That was a common theme in the Resistance. _Just in case._

The problem was, just under six months of being on their ship had taught Jaal more about himself than the rest of his twenty-seven years had.

He had learned that even with his mothers, siblings, and cousins, there was a hole in his heart: despite the abundance of family and home, he never felt true belonging until he stepped aboard an alien ship. He had learned that killing kett now hurt, instead of providing relief; it hurt more than he’d thought possible, because every Chosen warrior who felt his gunfire had once been a member of his own species. Sometimes, he couldn’t stop himself from looking into the monstrosity the kett had turned them into, searching for anything— anything at all—familiar. Anything Angaran, that he could recognize and mourn for.

And he’d learned about the aliens. He’d learned that despite their gangly limbs, turians were extremely capable warriors. Equipped with many natural defenses, they were almost as athletic as an Angara in his prime. Krogan have multiple organs, the better to survive their toxic homeworld, honed to make them into living weapons. Salarians rarely needed sleep, and were burdened with perfect memory. Asari were long-lived, and had spoken to him of their biology, showing him what nature had made happen in the Milky Way that the kett twisted here in Heleus.

Best of all, and worst of all, he’d learned that even after Allia, it was still possible to fall in love.

It all came back to the human Pathfinder. Ryder. _Sara._ Beautiful, enchanting Sara.

From that first week on her ship, she had existed just within his periphery, tingling on the edge of his senses like a song stuck in his head. At first, he’d thought it was the talent that Cora and Peebee shared with her, biotics, their ‘mass effect’ fields gently pulling at him. At low levels, it was foreign but similar enough to an angara’s natural current to not be uncomfortable, though standing too close to a powerful field put an itch under his skin that could be anywhere from mild to infuriating. But that wasn’t what he felt with Sara.

No, the pull Ryder exerted on him was singular, something that was unique to her.

She had taken his every preconception about aliens and fed it back to him. Equal parts sass and charm, Sara had even begun to melt the defensive coldness in the Angara; where she was once met with suspicion and hostility, most now welcomed her.

Her visits to Resistance bases and Angaran daara were eagerly anticipated, and many hailed her as a friend. The last time they had been on Aya, Ryder had purchased an armful of quilloa and elmohk, taking them to the Tavetaan and portioning them out among families and Resistance members. She’d been careful not to flaunt the wealth or make the angara there uncomfortable and rejection or suspicion was met with sunny smiles and acceptance. He’d even heard children trading tales about her like a mythical figure while an indulgent Moshae listened; some of them were wild enough to make his heart thrum with happiness.

He had looked forward to their return to Aya for some time. They usually spent a couple of days there, giving the crew a much-needed break from the dangers and horrors of Heleus while Jaal restocked his nutrient paste or purchased supplies. And for him, it was heartwarming to hear his people speak to the Tempest crew like allies and friends. News of her loyalty to the Resistance—and to Jaal, he was mature enough to admit—had spread like wildfire among his people. They marveled at someone able to rescue their Moshae, go head to head with Evfra, and back down Akksul. That she could be, in Liam’s words, “such a badass” and still be so demonstrably warm and generous…

She’d come so far, learned so much.

And he’d almost lost her.

***

_Ryder is a force of nature. Jaal's seen it before—fighting Remnant, fighting kett, even fighting Roekaar. A stony Angaran face or ancient Remnant machine that dwarfs her, nothing fazes her for long before she charms, shames, or fights her way through it. She reminds him of the storms on Havarl, storms he’d grown up surrounded by. Even the color of her biotics speaks to him of lightning and long nights spent watching the jungle around his daar bending to the whims of Havarl’s weather._

_Even now, with the Archon himself in spitting distance, her shoulders are steady and her biotics flicker despite the restraints. He watches the regular rise and fall of her breaths, constant, like she isn't nose to nose with pure evil, and feels a small thread of pride under his fear and anger. As much as he wants out of this stars-forsaken stasis field, there is no doubt in his heart that Ryder will carve their way from this hellhole with the Salarians intact, as she always does._

_Stasis can not, after all, hold a force of nature for long._

_“Such an unlikely rival,” the Archon murmurs, narrowing his eyes as he studies Ryder. “Almost invigorating to have one. And yet, this is a fitting end.”_

_Though he can’t see her face, the combination sneer and smirk in Sara’s voice is plain, any fear hidden behind a snarl that had made even Akksul blink. “Is that what sad looks like on you? I’d give you a hug, but—”_

_The Archon’s face fills with fury and disgust as he seizes Sara’s neck. Jaal can’t help the growl in his throat, but he has nothing on Drack’s enraged roar._

_“Hey! Try that with me, asshole!”_

_The Archon doesn't spare the struggling krogan so much as a glance as he turns Sara’s head first to the right, then to the left. Sometime between his gloating and Ryder’s taunt, a syringe appeared in the monster’s hand. Jaal doesn’t know where it came from and doesn't frankly care; he roars and shakes, helpless in his restraints, as it plunges into Sara’s neck, red blood filling the tube. To her credit, there's no scream, but she does turn her head and snap her blunt human teeth at the arm holding her._

_“A first sample,” the Archon promises, releasing Sara and wiping his hand on his cloak as if touching her has contaminated him. “Your testing begins now.”_

***

As Jaal made his way through the Tempest’s airlock, at last, he took in the mood of the ship; it seemed his thoughts weren’t the only ones to take a darker turn. Suvi was unusually quiet, her hands wrapped around a mug. He didn’t think she intended to drink it: three other mugs sat around her station, forgotten and still mostly full. Kallo stared into the horizon beyond the nose of the ship, eyes blinking rapidly but he was the first to notice Jaal standing in the door.

“Jaal.” Kallo nodded at him. Suvi jumped at the noise, sloshing a bit of tea onto her uniform. “Welcome back.”

“My apologies for being late,” Jaal replied, looking uneasily between the two. Their expressions matched the emotional current that seemed to be circling the ship. Circling within him, too. _Did something happen?_

“No worries,” Suvi murmured, dabbing at her uniform and frowning. “We’ve not gotten the go order yet.”

“That is unusual,” Jaal said, tension creeping up his neck. Ryder had been itching to go to Aya for some time and he couldn’t imagine her putting it off willingly. Kallo just nodded again, the thin line of his mouth pursed. When neither of them said anything else, Jaal turned and made his way through the bridge doors, only to get a face full of armor and yellowing bone.

“’Bout time you showed up, kid,” Drack muttered, an angry cast to his reptilian features. “Need you for something. Below deck.”

“Is something wrong with Ryder?” Jaal’s heart leapt into his throat. _Was Lexi wrong? She said that Ryder was cleared._

“She hasn’t come out of her room all day,” Drack growled. “Last of Vetra’s orders came in with something for Ryder and she disappeared.” The old krogan’s face still showed the stress from the Archon’s flagship, his mouth pulled downwards, and deep canyons near his eyes that spoke of long, sleepless nights. Jaal knew the feeling—he kept seeing their confrontation with the Archon whenever he closed his eyes.

***

_This cannot be happening._

_“Are there_ any _other options?” Sara asks quietly. The poise she’d shown in the face of the Archon seems to have been stolen along with her blood; her shoulders shake and though he still can’t see her face, he can hear the fear lacing her voice. Cora had told him about the events on Habitat 7, how Ryder had been clinically dead before SAM revived her through her implant, but he's never worried before about the deep connection between Ryder and SAM. The thought that SAM could do something as drastic as stopping her heart hadn't occurred to him._

_When SAM replies, ice tumbles down Jaal’s throat into his stomach._

_“None that I can determine.”_

_Drack growls, a long, winding sound that speaks volumes about how unhappy he is with what SAM was suggesting. Jaal might have made some sound of his own if he could, but every time he opens his mouth, nothing came out. Every breath is a struggle as the silence turns from expectant to oppressive._ _  
_ _  
_ _“All right,” she whispers finally. “Let’s do it.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“You’d_ better _come back,” Drack growls, his yellow eyes fixed on her. The ‘or else’ hangs unspoken in the air._ _  
_ _  
_ _“…good luck.” Jaal manages a whisper that's drowned out by the hissing and wheezing of the strange kett machines around them. SAM speaks through her omni-tool, so that they can all hear._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Stopping your heart… now.”_ _  
_ _  
__For a moment, nothing happens and Jaal has a fleeting moment of hope that SAM had found some other last minute, improbable way to solve their issue, but then Sara pitches backwards, the field around her flickering out of existence. The sound her body makes when it hits the ship’s floor will haunt him, he knows, probably for the rest of his life. Her eyes stare, unseeing, as Drack struggles in his bonds again and even from his prison, the difference, the emptiness, as she dies is apparent._

 _Something he'd just read the day before sticks in his mind and if it hadn't been the_ worst _possible time, he'd have to laugh at the absurdity of an elcor's voice floating in his head._ Mournfully: Death lies on her, like an untimely frost, upon the sweetest flower of all the field. _When Sara wakes up, he'll have to tell her— she loves his reactions to elcor Shakespeare._

_If she wakes up._

_"SAM?” Jaal breathes, heart in his throat. She has to come back; there is no other thought Jaal can hold onto other than a desperate belief that death cannot hold Sara yet. “SAM!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Simulating the cardiovascular core,” SAM replies evenly. “Zero activity.”_ _  
_  
Come on, Sara, _Jaal urges, watching for the smallest flicker of movement. Breath. Something._ Come back.  
  
_“Stimulating the cardiovascular core.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _When Ryder pushes herself up to her elbows and coughs, wheezing with every greedy inhale, he's suddenly grateful the stasis fields holds them so rigidly. Otherwise, he’d fall to his knees in relief. The need to feel his arms around her, to feel the rise and fall of her chest against his as she breathes or to hear her heartbeat in his ear, takes his breath away. Her death— a permanent death— would leave his galaxy dim and empty, and the revelation echoes deep in his core. If he thinks about it, can trace every moment from potential enemy, to tolerated alien, to dear friend. And..._ _  
_  
Stars above, _he thinks, half in despair._ I love her.  
  
_“Twice now I’ve come back from the dead,” Sara mutters, shaking her head. She gathers her feet under her, stumbling as her shotgun powers up. Every shake and shiver of her muscles is visible, but her biotics are pulsing, ready to unleash the storm the Archon has only delayed. “Can’t say the experience is improving.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _"I believe it is preferable to the alternative." SAM's voice is as even as ever, and there's a perverse sort of relief thrumming through Jaal at the sound. The unworried tone, the way Ryder tosses her braid back and looks at them, the smirk on her face shaky but real enough to unknot his stomach... it's all normal._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Well,_ you _two look comfortable," Sara says, grinning and here and_ alive _. To Jaal's ears, it is as comforting, as_ visceral _as a kiss and, when Drack growls at her to let him down, he thinks that if he can just hold on to that sound, if he can just believe hard enough that this is normal and routine, maybe it will be._

***

“Ryder!” Drack bellowed, slamming his fist into the door. Like the first three times he’d done it, the door stayed stubbornly shut. Jaal flinched at the sound, and the dent it left behind. “Kid, open the door!”

“Drack, I must ask you to stop.” SAM’s voice echoed over the communications network. He distantly heard Suvi curse from the bridge and assumed she’d spilled more tea. “If you insist on damaging the Tempest, I will be forced to report your actions and let the Pathfinder deal with you.”

“Good,” the krogan growled, baring his teeth at the ceiling as if the AI was watching them from on-high. “Let her _deal_ with me.”

“Drack, perhaps force is not the best way to handle Sara right now,” Jaal murmured, laying a hand on his shoulder, very aware of just how fast the old man could move if he wanted to. “She is suffering like we are. We were all there when… she…”

Drack looked at the hand on his arm then sighed, resting the knuckles of his hand against the door. The crags in his face grew deeper as he frowned, like the wind had gone out of him. He raised a scaly finger and pointed it in Jaal’s face, close enough that he could see the striations in the thick talon wavering in front of his eyes. “You take care of my girl,” he growled, before stomping down into the kitchen.

As soon as the door swished shut behind Drack—and there were a couple of almighty crashes as he pulled pots and pans down from cupboards and slammed them on the small stove—a small voice chimed over his omni-tool.

“Is he gone?” Sara asked quietly.

“He is,” Jaal confirmed, just as quietly. “Will you allow me in, _taoshay?_ ”

When the door slid open, he was expecting Sara to be nearby. Instead, when he looked, he saw her—an already small figure curled into a tight ball in the middle of her bed. Misery hung over her, heavy and palpable, in a way that made his heart ache. As he sat on the edge of her bed, she turned to face him. Gone was the bright, cheerful woman who’d captivated the Angara, who’d captivated him. Gone was the fierce, determined warrior who’d withstood Akksul and the Archon and death itself.

In her place was a weary, heart-sore girl. It was sometimes easy to forget that Sara was younger than he was, if he ignored the time spent traveling through dark space. She shone among the brightest of stars in Heleus, and her legends were being told already. But here, in the quiet of her quarters, he saw the mask of Pathfinder fall away.

“Will you tell me what silences your cheer?” he asked, offering his hand. She grabbed it with a strength that surprised him, for her seeming frailty, and curled around him. Her eyes were red, and he wondered how long she had kept herself locked in her room, crying alone. The first time he had come to her, she had also been weeping. That she felt the need to hide from them, these people who so clearly loved her, didn’t sit well on his heart. _Even heroes need to feel._

“Tann delivered my footlocker today,” she whispered, interrupting his uneasy thoughts. “And my father’s.”

“…I see,” he murmured, moving his hand to her hair. “Do you want to talk? Or is silent comfort better?” She looked up at him with the same expression on her face as the first she asked him if she could sit with him. With a small smile, he sat further up on the bed, with his back pressed to the wall. As soon as he was seated, she nestled herself between his thighs and curled into him, her tears as obvious as her attempts to hide them. He crooned under his breath, a wordless song of comfort and healing, and felt—knot by slow knot—the tension bleed from her.

***

“You’re always doing that.” She looked at him curiously, a trace of her normal self peeking through her sorrow. “Humming or singing, I mean.”

“Mm,” Jaal took a deep breath and let the song travel down through his chest, resonating in the two hollows of his chest. Sara’s head shot up, nearly colliding with his chin. He smiled as the song trailed away and she pressed her hand against his chest, squinting, as if she were trying to follow the echoes. To his delight, the secrets of angaran physiology had provided a momentary distraction for her; he had to forcibly turn his thoughts away from other secrets of physiology. While she furrowed her brow in concentration, he looked over the planes of her face; once so alien, so pointed and strange, and now dearer to him than the very air he breathed.

“Music,” he said, trying and failing to be solemn, “is very much a part of the Angara. There are places in the old ruins where rails and banisters were carved with finger placements, so that when the wind blew, anyone could sing with it. Make music with it." He gently shaped her hands, as if around an invisible pipe, to demonstrate. "Our bodies can also act in such a way: we have hollows here, in our chests, that can echo with sound.

“And our traditions are oral. We tell stories, and many youngsters in years past would attempt to take part in the _jav’anj_ , our anchor. A retelling of our history, usually in song.” He chuckled. “Many also fail. I’m proud to say that I did not.”

As he’d expected, the scholar in his Sara surfaced quickly. “So you’re… what, a bard? Essentially?” At his blank look, she laughed. “Like a… a traveling singer and storyteller and historian. It’s where an old human idiom comes from, to sing for your supper. Bards were often welcomed wherever they roamed."

“Ah. In a way,” he hedged. As curious as he was about what had sent her into a fugue state, Jaal didn’t protest when she curled back into him, more relaxed than before. He closed his eyes, thanking the stars that he could feel her breaths; the steady rhythm helped drown out the sound of her hitting the floor of the Archon’s ship, at least temporarily. “Most of my family is talented in this area. Many angara who have large, powerful families have at least one who is like a… bard. We call them _taleve._ ”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” She made to poke at him, somehow managing to miss both his cheek and chin and hitting the wall behind him. “You’re a _bard_. I’ve got to tell Scott. He’s such a… he likes to play…”

Sara’s voice trailed off as her face went carefully, unnaturally blank. Jaal tucked her under his chin and thought, beginning to hum again. He had an email draft waiting on his omni-tool but had wondered whether it would be more sting than sweet. Seeing her face flatten, though, knowing how much she missed— needed— her twin, he thought it might be a good time. Especially with what had happened while rescuing the Salarians.

“Darling one, if your brother has even a fraction of your strength,” Jaal said softly, “he will be strong, and wake soon.”

“I hope so,” she murmured, her voice thick. “I really need the little shit back.”

When she sat up and reached forward, he missed her warmth against him. She bent forward and pressed the flat of her torso between her knees, knocking most decent thoughts out of Jaal's head for a brief moment; he’d certainly never seen a fellow angara bend that way before. _Stars above._

While he was struggling to keep his mind on comfort and friendship, she hauled the white box back towards him and settled against his chest again.

***

“I almost didn’t get this open,” Sara murmured; her eyes prickled but with Jaal’s warmth at her back, the sorrow she felt about her father didn’t feel like broken glass and acid in her throat anymore. It had curled up, then stretched out, long and smooth. His footlocker was only the first hurdle, and she was well aware of that, but at least for now, she could lift the lid without feeling like she was back on Hab 7. _One step at a time._

“When Scott and I were kids, dad would take us out camping in the desert,” she continued, pulling the small boxes out of the locker; she wondered if he would judge her for revealing so much. “Humans back on Earth mostly live in big cities or throughout space, on stations like the Nexus. Getting back to nature isn't something many take time for.”

Jaal’s hands landed on her shoulders, even as his voice rumbled, “Your people remove themselves from their surroundings? Why?”

Sara laughed. “Humanity’s always too busy looking up at the stars to see the things around us.”

“Ah!” Jaal laughed with her, unknotting her stomach. _He’s here because he wants to be here,_ she reminded herself. _And he_ is _Angaran. Emotions don’t bother them._ “This I have seen. The Cultural Exchange has several speeches from your history, particularly your father and Jien Garson. I’ve begun to make sense of the Initiative.”

He sounded so proud of himself she couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Well, let me show you some more things. Maybe you can help _me_ make sense of it." She opened the first box, revealing three slender information sticks. There was a small emitter, for direct viewing, and a port that indicated it could connect to a standard datapad. Selecting the one she’d held before, she started viewing mode. The tiny lens flickered for a moment, then projected a small hologram.

“These are tents. Like… cloth shelters,” Sara pointed at the two white objects in the foreground, the image digitizing around her finger before reforming. “The desert is—it has a severe kind of beauty. Dad grew up there, and he always said that it shaped his desire to see the galaxy— on clear nights, you can see the Milky Way in the sky.”

Jaal inhaled as he studied the hologram. He had seen pictures of Earth before— some of humanity’s more iconic cities were featured in the Exchange— but what Sara held in her hand seemed to entrance him. There was indeed a stark beauty to the landscape, a bleakness that was no less compelling. Short, scruffy plants and gently swirling sand filled the lower half of the picture, and the sky above them was streaked with red and orange. Desert sunsets held a dear place in Sara’s heart; the Sierra Nevada had shaped each of the Ryders in different ways. In her father, it had sown discovery and the burning curiosity that had eventually led him through the Charon relay. In her brother, music and words sang through his fingers, capturing memories as gifts for other people.

And in her, it had fostered a deep and constant love of beautiful places, and the need to engrave them in her mind as much as to understand them.

She clicked the navigation and brought up the next picture. Her father, mother, and she and Scott gathered around a small fire, the child-Sara in the middle with her head tilted back to look at the stars overhead. Even Sara had to admit, she was a cute kid: the little pointed chin, the slight upturn to her nose, and those big green eyes that had been the undoing of her parents. Next to her, his leg comfortably draped over hers, the same eyes and expression on his face, her brother held a small flute in his hands as their mother watched.

“That must be Scott?” he asked, laying his chin on her shoulder. “He looks like you. Angaran children don’t look so much like each other.”

“We used to pretend to be each other, like Viola and Sebastian.” Sara laughed softly. “Mom’s favorite play involved identical twins, and dad used to tease her about us because of it. We still look a lot alike even now, but back then, only our parents could tell us apart. Especially when I cut my hair to match his.” A new image formed, the same place but obviously a different time. Sara’s hair matched her brother’s, short and with a soft curl to it; again, they were nestled together like a pair of adhi pups, limbs tangled together.

“We look a lot like mom,” she said, highlighting her mother’s form. “But our expressions and body language are all dad. He used to laugh whenever Scott and I would get mad, ruffle our hair and say we were definitely his kids.” Her voice trailed off, sorrow laced through it. “That all changed when mom died.”

“He loved you,” Jaal murmured into her ear; she felt him nuzzle against her neck and shivered. “It is obvious, Sara. All I can see when I look at his face here is how he’s looking at you, your family. Not as open as an angara might be, but his adoration is written in his expression.”

Sara clicked the image off, rubbing at her face. “There’s two more archives like it. Pictures, vids of us as kids. Stuff about mom. I didn’t even know he was recording, half the time.” She replaced the drive in the box and took out another, revealing a battered physical copy of _William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night_. At her invitation, he lifted the lid of the box, revealing a toddler’s shoe with ribbons. Jaal ran his finger across it, the slippery fabric rustling against his skin.

“So tiny,” he murmured, awed. "Yours?"

“My first ballet slipper,” Sara whispered. Years of recitals and stern teachers whirled through her head, all connected by the sheer freedom that dancing brought. “I danced until I was a teen and I was kind of terrible at it. But I was determined to get through it. I thought I lost this pair when I outgrew them but he must’ve kept them.”

“There’s a lot of stuff in here,” she continued, voice going hoarse. “Scott’s first attempt at writing a song; medals from our school. And this,” she pulled out a piece of clothing. At first glance, it was almost indistinguishable from the one Sara liked to wear on the ship. But instead of the stamp of the Initiative, this one had a small N7 in the corner, and a red stripe going down the right arm. “It’s called a hoodie. I stole his first one—still have it, too, somewhere. He must’ve gotten a second one. I think I’ll give this one to Scott, when he wakes up.”

The smell of something savory and delicious began wafting through the ship, distracting and seductive; Sara’s stomach growled loudly, making her face burn.

"Ah, I guess a biotic not eating all day is a no-no," she said, mortified. Jaal just laughed and carefully extracted himself from the bed before pulling her to her feet. When she stumbled, far too close to him and on legs long since fallen asleep, he brushed her bangs out of her eyes and cupped her cheek. Hazily, she noticed that up close, his eyes looked like galaxies— blues, greens, even a few speckles of pink.

 _They look like Andromeda does from Earth,_ she thought, her hands finding purchase on his waist. _I never noticed that before._ When he lowered his head to hers, there was only a slight flicker of disappointment as he pressed their foreheads together instead of kissing her again. That day in the tech lab stood out in her memory, and even though Jaal hadn’t kissed her since, she could feel his lips on hers when she thought about it.

“Shall we brave the kitchen and whatever Drack has taken his worry and frustration out on?” he murmured, one of his hands ghosting down her back. The shiver of electricity that skated down her spine, following his hands, whispered something warm and comforting into the hollows of her bones. For the first time since the footlockers had been delivered, Sara felt a genuine smile form, and she nodded, shivering as the current changed; it felt like the sparks had brightened without becoming more powerful.

Jaal’s eyes tilted up at the corners as he smiled back and a look she couldn’t quite— or didn’t dare— decipher crossed his face as they stepped into the hall.

***

“That had better be Ryder and the pretty boy,” Drack rumbled from the kitchen. “It’s Drack surprise night.”

“Every night is Drack surprise ni—” Sara’s face lit up and she laughed as the krogan turned away from a pot spitting red sauce everywhere. “Is that tomato sauce?” she squealed.

“Hn.” Drack grunted an affirmative. “Might’ve bribed Vetra to bribe Kesh to snag some from Hydrop—” The rest of his confession was cut off as Sara launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hump as much as she could. Jaal would never admit it, even under pain of death, but had the Krogan been a crying sort of race, he thought Drack might very well have been shedding a few tears. His claws were gentle on Sara’s back as he hugged her.

“I love you, old man,” she whispered, barely audible over the bubbling sauce. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Drack took a deep breath, his snout pressed against Sara’s shoulder. “Just no more dying, okay? I’m old and my last heart can’t take it anymore.” When Sara pulled back, there were fresh tear tracks down her face; Jaal watched as the old krogan ran one massive knuckle across her cheek, more tenderly than he’d ever seen.

“Vetra came by to see what all the fuss was,” Drack said, rubbing her tears away. “Told me about Tann’s little gift. Figured it’d throw you for a loop and thought a taste of home might help put solid ground under your boots.”

“But how did you know…?”

“Kid, when your _ru’shan_ is the superintendent of the Nexus, you can find out a lot from those Initiative character studies.” He rumbled out a laugh. “I can’t get you a cat yet so I figured spetti was the next best thing.”

“You mean spaghetti?”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t remember saying that in my interviews,” Sara crossed her arms, one hip cocked to the side as she studied him. Jaal rubbed his finger across his lips, trying to erase his smile. Cora had told him that Sara freely admitted to being stubborn, much like her father had been. In that, she and Drack were remarkably alike. Most of the crew was terribly unsurprised that the two of them had gravitated towards one another.  _Peas in a pod,_ Gil had said; he had looked up peas later that night but hadn't seen the correlation. Cora had muttered something about apples and trees that Jaal didn't understand.  _Family isn't just about blood,_ PeeBee had surprised him by saying; that was the closest sentiment to what Sara and the krogan had. 

That one, Jaal understood best.

Drack turned and stirred the sauce, then peered into another pot, carefully avoiding looking at her. “Your dad did. Said you and your brother used to have fights over the last of the stuff when you were kids.”

“I didn’t think he remembered that,” she said, voice quiet. “But I’m finding out that he remembered a lot more than Scott or I gave him credit for.”

Jaal took a seat and pulled Sara down to perch on his knee; he couldn’t even fool himself that it was to give her a place to sit in the cramped galley. With the email he had waiting for her, with what his true mother had suggested, hope and nerves warred in his heart. Since the Archon’s ship, the only thing that helped steady him was to be near her. While she and Drack bantered, half-belligerent, half-adoring, Jaal closed his eyes and listened to the sound of her voice, letting each rise and fall of her chest reassure him.

***

 _“SAM?” Jaal’s voice is quiet. Even so, it sounds far too loud in the empty tech lab. Two full days since their rescue of Ark Paarchero, and they're finally,_  finally _approaching_ _the Nexus. Two days at hard burn put a significant dent in their stash of Helium-3, and Kallo estimates that they needed at least a day to refuel and check the ship for damage. That's okay with Jaal— the Nexus is, so far, safe from kett, and safe is exactly where he wants to be. Where he needs Sara to be: as far away from the kett as he can get her._

_“Yes, Jaal?”_

_It's also been two days since Jaal has really slept. Every time he closes his eyes, Sara falls all over again, empty body thudding on that cold metal deck. The short naps he manage end with him bolting upright, heart racing and tears in his eyes, the need to see Ryder embarrassingly, unbearably strong. In his dreams, her eyes go milky as SAM is unable to restart her heart, as she dies while he hangs limp and unable to protect her. Jaal has seen friends die before— that's something everyone in the Resistance experiences, eventually. He's also killed people who had once been friends, who had been ensnared by Akksul's contagious hatred._

_But Sara..._

_“Is Sara breathing?” His voice echoes off of the lab walls, bouncing his words back until they reverberate in his skull, lodging in his head— and his heart— like_ firaan _, burning and icy. His realization from the flagship haunts him even in his waking hours, to say nothing of his nightmares. His hands shake as he waits for SAM 's response and the only way he can regain control is to knot them in the nap of his blanket._

_“Yes, Jaal. The Pathfinder is in the medical bay, currently. Doctor T’perro is teaching her an asari card game from her childhood.”_

_The iron band around his chest releases enough for him to breathe: Sara is alive, breathing, and their medical officer is with her. Nothing can happen to her here. Relief rushes through him, as it did the last time he had asked the same question two hours before. “Can you ask Lexi privately if she would mind a little more company?”_

_“…yes, Jaal.” If Jaal had been told when he joined the crew of the Tempest that he would befriend— not just tolerate, not just speak to, but_ befriend _— an artificial intelligence, he might have laughed. Before meeting SAM, the thought of an AI being a person was laughable. But in the months since he’s become part of the Pathfinder team, SAM  has learned, grown, expressed emotion in subtle ways. As a part of Sara, the AI came to life. That serves them both well now; the two of them do their best— in their own ways— to keep Sara safe._

 _“Thank you, SAM,” Jaal whispers, sliding his legs from under his blanket. The_ rofjinn _is left hanging as he dresses and makes his way down to the med bay. Sara and Lexi huddle over one of the beds, cards spread before them, and his heart constricts as he takes in the exhaustion present in both women. The feelings that had smacked him in the face on the Archon’s ship are still new, and it may take time to accept that he’s fallen in love with an alien._

Evfra’s going to kill me, _he thinks, watching the slow, tired curl of Sara’s mouth as she says his name. Settling next to her and half-listening to Lexi explain the rules, he can finally take a deep breath again._

***

Drack rolled one hard, yellow eye at him as he pulled the pots from the stove to the table and sent the ship-wide alert for dinner. He nodded in thanks, then laid one massive hand on Sara’s head, giving her hair a slight ruffle. 

“Listen, kid,” Drack said, looking at her in the eye. “Raising Kesh taught me an important lesson.”

“Yeah?” Sara sniffed once, scrubbing at her eyes one last time; the crying seemed to be over for now, though it would likely reappear as she continued to mourn the father she now knew loved her. She bounced up from Jaal’s leg and started grabbing plates and flatware for the crew, a small but real smile on her face. “What’s that?”

“Parents aren’t meant to be a goal. Or a finish line.” Drack grunted and sat at the end of the small table. Some days, Jaal wasn’t sure how they all managed to fit around it, but he was used to close quarters and had learned not to question the bendy physics of families. “We’re the _starting_ line. Where you go from there? It's all you.” He looked at Sara then, his emotions evident on his face to anyone who knew how to look. “Your dad would be damn proud of you. I am.”

Before Sara could respond, the doors hissed open. Lexi took one look between them and smiled, then slid into the seat next to Drack; neither he nor Sara missed the small kiss on the shoulder she gave him. The old krogan lifted his arm and settled the doctor against his side with a happy-sounding grumble. Sara leaned over and pressed her lips to the top of his headplate before handing him a plate of noodles and sauce and Jaal took a quick snap of the scene with his visor, with the intent to show her later. While she was occupied handing out food—including a bowl of graxen noodles and something spicy and pungent for Vetra—, he opened his omni-tool and sent the email. It was time.

One way or the other, he would find out if Sara felt the same melody he did when they were together.

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really have to nudge and thank Istrael here. My almost-sister was quite diligent in helping me flesh out what Angaran culture might look like. I took my notes from the game itself-- Jaal's fixture on music and song, the marriage song, the mentioned divorce song, etc-- and the fact that Jaal most notably but presumably other Angara have many varied skills.
> 
> In addition, you might notice that instead of writing every single major mission, I'm alluding to them in flashbacks. Maybe that's a cheap way of writing, but I hope everyone's enjoying the story and that it's not too disruptive.


End file.
